


Does Harry Potter Is Gay?

by Lizzy0305



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Coming Out, Denial, Dirty Talk, Gay Bar, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-29 04:11:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17800838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizzy0305/pseuds/Lizzy0305
Summary: After a little misunderstood fiasco involving an innocent hug and a very gay Malfoy, the Daily Prophet outs Harry, who’s not yet ready to come out from that proverbial closet. He heeds the warning though, gets a girlfriend and lives a proper life until one particular night, when he meets one particular man, who changes everything.





	Does Harry Potter Is Gay?

**Author's Note:**

> _Apologies, for the delay (it wouldn't be me, if I was punctual anyway). It is (was) Valentine's Day and love should be celebrated so here is some short snarry for you to celebrate with._
> 
> _And no, that title is not a typo - I did steal it however from one of the episodes of Game Grumps. Though originally, it was Bruno Mars' gayness that was questioned. Or stated. We're still unclear on that._
> 
> _Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy this sweet little thing, it's nothing new, Severus and Harry in a bar, you KNOW how it ends, but I just wanted to do my take on it._
> 
> _Love you all._

It’s been a while since Harry dared go out alone.

At the beginning, after the war, he had celebrated alongside with his friends. Many drunken nights were behind Harry, nights were he barely knew where he was, who were the people around him. Nights he spent in an intoxicated haze, lost in the buzz of the liquor, dancing, laughing. Happy.

He noticed a little change in his behaviour after a couple beers. With whiskey, he needed even less. Auror training has been mostly about magic, and he is still a rather skinny bloke, hence alcohol still gets to him rather quick.

At the beginning, the change used to be subtle. A glance in the wrong direction, hesitant, assessing. A thought, half-formed and obscure. Then night after night, it became more and more visible. A glance turned into a challenging stare, a vague thought into an idea. Touches occurred. Timid at first, barely there, gentle. It was always followed with a spark. _That_ was anything but gentle.

That was when he started going out alone, without Ron and Hermione, _without Ginny_ , hoping they would never notice these changes in him.

Once he was alone, he was free. He always made sure people didn’t recognize him. His face would never get on the front page of the Prophet regarding this. Little did he know…

It was liberating at first. The alcohol in his system brought a white sheet of silky haze around his mind. He didn’t have to think. His body knew what it wanted. He glimpsed at them and they followed him. He touched them and they held him. Thoughts became even more, plagued his days too, not just his nights. They evolved into fantasy, vivid and bright, crystal clear even at daylight, even when Harry was sober.

Then it all had to stop. It was Draco’s fault. All of it. The irony was, he wasn’t even drunk that time.

He knew Draco was gay, everyone did. His disinheritance from the Malfoy family was a huge scandal. Malfoy was clever enough to make his father’s life a living hell after that. The amount of gold he got from the paper to rat out his father’s dirty secrets paid for his flat and his new wardrobe.

Harry envied him even then. He dared admit what Harry didn’t. He said it out loud when Harry stayed quiet. Harry thought it was unfair how the tables turned. Now Draco had everything, freedom, love, happiness, while Harry had nothing.

They met in a bar, just a normal regular bar, not the kind Harry had visited at night, drank and disguised. They talked, caught up, had dinner, just one beer. It had been six months since the war, there was a lot to talk about. Then in the end, Draco thanked him for everything. They hugged it out. It was a grave mistake.

_Does Harry Potter Is Gay?_ – was the Prophet’s headline the next day. Everyone found it hilarious, except Harry. The Prophet was in such a hurry to print the news that they didn’t even notice they fucked up the headline. No one believed it because of the newspaper’s mistake. But Harry knew it was true and he panicked. He was terrified that his dirty little secret, probably the last he had, did find a way out into the open. That people knew who he became at night, whom he touched, whom he was longing for.

Hermione sensed that it bothered him more than it should, and two days and a letter later the Prophet issued an apology. Harry sighed relieved and promised himself to take this incident to what it was: a warning. He started dated Ginny again, and he never went near one of those places, disguised or as himself. He straightened his life. He never looked back. Never.

But then what the fuck is he doing here now, drinking with Snape, of all people?

❤❤❤

He nods to the bloke at the door, a familiar face. Great muscles tense as the guy looks him up and down then smiles at him. It’s an offer that Harry disregards, but there’s no hint of recognition in the colourless eyes and Harry feels a bit relieved. He moves further inside the club.

Murky darkness surrounds him, bodies – beautiful, mostly naked – move and rub against him as he gets closer and closer to the bar. The beat is loud enough to tear his eardrums, and thankfully, to chase the doubts from his mind, too. It’s time to forget who he is and become someone else. Just for tonight.

He tries to catch the eyes of the bartender – Carl, he remembers him, it wasn’t that long ago, only half a year and Carl had changed nothing; bronze body, like a god’s, brown eyes like melted chocolate glisten, only his hair, his beautiful, waving hair is different, it’s short now, not even long enough to grip – and orders a glass of whiskey. He doesn’t have much time.

Carl hands him the drink. “Good to see you back, James,” he winks, and Harry can't help but grin at the recognition. He missed it. He missed Carl. He missed these beautiful bodies, these people, who has known him only as James and who knew nothing of Harry Potter. He missed being James.

“Good to be back,” he says as he gives Carl the money, but the man just shakes his head.

“This one’s on me,” he says, smile unwavering. “You just brightened my night.”

He’s back serving drunken boys and men, smiles, flirts, jokes, it is his job after all, and Harry doesn’t mind. Everyone wants the bartender, Carl makes sure to use that and gets them to drink as much as possible. Still, it feels good. Fuck it feels good to be back.

He sits down at the bar and eyes the crowd. He lets the sight slowly seep into his mind, writhing bodies on the dancefloor illuminated only momentarily with bright lights. Only glimpses, shimmering, everchanging. He feels like he’s peaking through a window, but he has to jump up every time to see something and the events are never the same.

Perhaps it’s what makes it all so tempting. He doesn’t see one man, he sees a mass of bodies, flesh against flesh. It’s intriguing and enticing. The tantalizing thought of what’s behind the darkness lurks in Harry’s mind and he wants to stand and walk there and explore, use his hands to rip the veil, his mouth to map out this new, exciting territory.

Carl taps his arm, one eyebrow raised suggestively. He pushes another glass of whiskey towards Harry, but Harry lifts the one still in his hand. The whiskey sloshes in it, ice cubes clink against the glass. Carl shrugs, silently, not that there is much of a chance for a discussion over the loud beats of the music. Harry is too far away, and he has no intension of moving closer at the moment.

Carl nods behind himself, then steps away. Harry’s heart stops and it’s the solid hit of shock that restarts it. Black eyes watch him from the other side of the bar. Intense gaze, but face expressionless he waits, whether Harry will accept the drink.

It’s impossible. He’s dead. This is a joke. Nothing more. But who would choose this face to come to a place like this? Who would wear the face of a dead man? And why? How?

He downs his drink, pushes the empty glass back at Carl, then takes the one offered. The man moves, though only barely, looks sideways at the empty seat next to him then back at Harry. That’s a clear invitation, if there’s one and Harry slips off his chair.

His body dissolves in the crowd for a moment, darkness and flashing lights swallow him up. He becomes one with the writhing bodies as he goes around the bar but not forgetting for even a single second where he’s headed.

He presses through men, hands go around his waist to keep him there, touch his shoulder, grasp his wrist, but he slips through. The relentless black gaze welcomes him when he solidifies again, an individual not part of a black chaos, just one person even if his life has a duality now, even if he has two personalities; one he lets people see and the other he keeps hidden every night, except now.

Snape’s turned away from the bar but leaning back against it. His thighs are spread as an offer and a young twat even takes him up on it. Harry watches as the youthful body – lean, probably not a day older than Harry’s – presses against Snape, hands on the man’s thighs, pushing his leg further apart no doubt to get closer to the back clad chest, grinds against the enticing crotch that has drawn in even Harry’s eyes.

Snape lets the boy do what he wants, gaze still lingering on Harry. One corner of his lips tugs up, a twitch of a muscles, but Harry knows Snape’s smirking.

He stops, not willing to play a game like this with Snape, and, _hah_ , wonders never cease, the moment Snape understands that he won't move until that twat is there, the black gaze turns and sluggishly moves up on the young body. A flash of his eyes and the boy is leaving, while Harry finally takes the seat next to him.

Harry mirrors his pose, sits with his body towards the crowd. It’s insulting, he knows perfectly well, because it means, his attention is not solely on Snape, those people have a chance, too, if Snape happens to bore Harry.

Snape knocks his glass of whiskey against Harry’s and takes a languid sip, eyes on the dancing crowd.

“What am I to call you?” Snape says, his low voice nothing more than a whisper really, but Harry hears him clear, as if he would be speaking in a different frequency, as if his silky voice would originate directly in Harry’s mind.

Snape cannot recognize him, his features are distorted enough that even Hermione wouldn’t realize who sits here. The hazy darkness, the flashing light only helps him to hide his real identity even more.

He doesn’t change much of himself, he doesn’t have to. The colour of his eyes, the shape of his nose, his cheekbones. A little alteration to everything here and there and he’s a completely new person.

He shrugs, calm. “You can call me James.”

“God, I despise that name,” Snape sneers. “Any other you might listen to?”

Harry is pretty sure at this point that he would listen to anything Snape called him from infuriating brat, twat, imbecile, stupid Gryffindor, to little shit but he longs to hear his last name from those lips, nothing more than a mean drawl, but he wants it.

“I doubt you’d like it any better so just call me whatever you like.” He says in the end.

Snape huffs. “All right, love.”

Harry doesn’t allow himself to react to the endearment. It’s not meant to be endearing after all, it’s belittling at best. Yet his stomach churns with something wild, dangerous.

“And you?” He asks.

“Oh please, let’s not play these stupid games, love. I know you know me.” Harry looks at him for a moment, scared that Snape might have recognized him after all, but his fears are invalid. “Everyone knows me in our world,” Snape continues. “Nowadays, I am, what you might call, infamous.” He says with a condemning frown.

Harry laughs. Oh, the irony. “Indeed,” he agrees with a smile. “Professor Snape, our new celebrity.”

“Not so new, it’s been a year.”

Harry hesitates, but then, eyes still on the crowd, he says, “I thought you were dead.” He can't shut out the tremor from his voice, the little desperate undertone either.

Snape looks at him. “I guess you thought the war was glorious too. Don’t believe anything you read in the newspaper, love.” He advices bitterly. “Well, maybe a couple things, you _can_ believe.” He adds after a moment, thoughtful.

Harry turns towards him, too. Let’s his eyes wonder on the familiar features that aren’t so familiar anymore. Snape has changed, not much, but he did. He looks better more like Harry remembers him from his first couple years at Hogwarts. He’s not as skeletal anymore as he was during the battle, he’s not covered in blood as he was when Harry had last seen him.

His eyes trace the sharp edges of the face, avoiding the eyes, knowing precisely that Snape watches him like a hawk even now. His gaze drifts down onto the slim neck, takes in the white scars that mar the pale skin. How the hell did he survive that?

“You like my battle scars, love?” Snape drawls and Harry shivers.

“You call them that?”

“There was a battle when I got them. I just wasn’t at that exact location.”

Harry takes another sip of whiskey just to hide his smile.

“Everyone thinks you’re dead,” Harry says not quiet understanding why this death issue is such a sore point. Clearly, Snape’s alive. Harry isn’t even allowed to think him an apparition, a hallucination or even a ghost, the others’ hungry, assessing gaze on the black-clad body makes it certain that he comprehends that the man next to him is real, touchable, solid.

“Everyone,” Snape agrees. “Except the people who needed to know I’m not.”

_How am I not among those people?_ The question almost slips out, but Harry catches himself just in time. James has nothing to do with the war. James is just a decent guy who sleeps through the day and comes out to play only at night. James has not fought a battle, hasn’t even attended Hogwarts. James does not exist outside this bar.

“Harry Potter said he saw you die.” He risks it. He did tell that after all, in the only interview he gave to the Prophet about the war, the battle, Voldemort.

“Harry Potter-“ Snape snarls suddenly, angry, almost vicious then takes a deep breath and downs his drink. “Harry Potter saw only what he needed to see.”

He touched a nerve, and he loves that even after all this time, even after not seeing each other for a year, just the mention of his name gets Snape this riled up. Oh, how much he loves that.

“You hate him, don’t you?” He asks and risks a side glance at Snape.

Snape turns back to the bar, waves at Carl who comes with the glasses of whiskey. He winks at Snape, who smiles darkly. They know each other, it dawns on Harry and suddenly all he can think about is whether Snape had fucked Carl at one point in time or of it’s still just a fantasy.

The thought of Snape and Carl, the vivid image in his mind that shows them fucking like animals, a mass of two bodies in a glorious haze is too much and Harry drinks the rest of his whisky, too.

Because how else would Snape do it, even if Carl wasn’t the type. But Harry knows he is, felt it, that’s why nothing ever happened between them – because he and Carl want the same thing.

Harry turns around too, leaves the crowd behind, there’s only one man tonight he wants to focus on. He doesn’t look at him though, he doesn’t allow him that piece of satisfaction.

Yet their eyes connect in the mirror over brightly lit liqueur bottles.

“Harry Potter and I… We have a past,” is all Snape says, black eyes boring into Harry’s bluish-whatever colour.

In all honesty, Harry’s more surprised to see Snape here then if it was Albus Dumbledore that came back from the dead. After all, at least he knew Dumbledore found men attractive, the same can't be said about Snape, though.

“How did you survive it?” He asks from the glass in his hands.

“Does it matter?” Snape says carelessly.

It might not matter to him, but it does to Harry. “Yes.”

“You know that I will take your memories of this night, right, love,” Snape says, more of a statement than a question. “You won't remember me. I cannot let anyone remember me. Not even someone like you.”

Harry nods. Of course, he knows. Harry Potter might have a chance of remembering this night, given he was the one who has cleared the man’s name. But not James. James is no one, and a no one means risks.

“How?” He insists.

“So many things can be expressed with tears. Pain. Joy. Memories. Redemption. An old friend left me a vial of them a long ago when he had died. You’re familiar with phoenixes I presume.”

Harry sighs, _of course_. Dumbledore would have thought of this too.

“Have we met before?” He asks after the silence draws on too long.

He doesn’t know what he will do if Snape says yes. If it turns out this isn’t the first time, if he finds out that he used to be aware of Snape’s survival just forgot it. He dares not to think what he would do to the man if it turned out they had more than a drink once and then Harry was made to forget it.

“No,” Snape says and Harry shudders in relief.

He’s closer now. His arm is against Harry’s, his thigh against Harry’s legs. When did this happen?

Harry looks at him. He can only hope he says the truth that this didn’t happen once already. He would not want to forget about Snape, nothing, not the anger, the shadows, not these strangely calm yet still vibrating moments.

Their eyes meet. His are so dark, so dangerous, shimmering with something Harry wants dearly.

“Will we meet again?” He whispers.

“Never.” Snape sighs.

A hand descends onto Harry’s thigh and his breathing quickens, but it’s still steady, rhythmic. The hand doesn’t move, fingers don’t caress him, it doesn’t grip, it’s just there burning Harry’s skin through his jeans.

His hand fists around the glass, knuckles whitening from the force of his grip. His resistance is futile though, his body knows what he wants and no matter how much his mind denies it, how much it resists, yells, fights against even the idea, his body – the traitor – does what it wants.

He opens his legs and Snape’s hand immediately slips further down on his inner thigh, little finger brushing against his crotch.

He doesn’t avert his eyes, he won't give Snape the satisfaction to think the touch unnerves him even if in truth he wants to scream.

The finger, the edge of the hand moves against his cock, subtle enough but Harry’s whole body is focused on that single point of contact.

He’s lost in the black eyes, an endless tunnel he walks it without any light. He’s gone too deep he’ll never come back from this. It’s over. James has taken over, Harry is lost forever.

“You want to fuck me?” He asks breathless.

Snape’s lips twitch dangerously, a flash of light, like lightning brightens that tunnel of darkness for a moment.

“Don’t be so vulgar,” Snape titters. “I would do a lot more than that to you. I would devour you. Make you fall apart.”

Harry is in pieces already, there’s not much about him that could come apart even more.

“Has anyone ever told you that…” Snape says looking deep in Harry’s eyes and he knows what’s to come, even though a part of him knows Snape cannot recognize him.

_...you look like your father._

_...you have your mother’s eyes._

So many times, has he been compared to his parents that it’s not even a surprise anymore when he meets someone new. James looks nothing like the Potters though, which makes the upcoming comparison even more hurtful and tense. He knows Snape will say it. The colour of his eyes might not be Lily’s anymore, but shape is. It could remind him of Lily. The shape of his face is not James’s but it’s almost there, more so now when Harry distorts his feature than when he is not under an illusion.

His heart clenches as he lifts his drink to his lips, taking a long sip, letting the whiskey sit in his mouth for a moment before he swallows.

“…You have the most beautiful lips I have ever seen.”

Harry chokes on his whiskey, the drink burns his throat as it slips down when Harry gasps in surprise.

The lips are his. He’s never changed them, never bothered to. Why would he. Never has his lips been his most famous features.

Snape smirks then downs his drink and stands. He leans down to Harry’s ear, whispers, “I’d very much like to taste them, actually.”

Harry throat clenches, a shiver goes wildly through his whole body.

Snape steps away, Harry turns after him, grabs his wrist. “Where are you going?” There’s panic in his voice and he doesn’t even bother to hide it.

“Dancing.” Snape says darkly. “With you.”

Harry follows him without a word.

Snape does not dance. He _grinds_. They don’t even hear the music, there’s no rhythm, only their bodies moving, shifting against the other. No one bothers them as if Snape’s aura has drawn a murky circle around them that no one dares cross. The others are nothing more than a haze, flashing light illuminating bodies that are lost in a dense fog. Maybe it’s magic. Maybe Harry has just lost his mind. It’s an absolute possibility.

Chest presses against his back, hands on his hips grip him firmly, but it’s the mouth on his neck that holds him captive, that does not allow him to escape, that makes him think about taking this further, a lot further, somewhere far away from this mass of shadows, someplace where instead of music he would only hear Snape’s deep grunts and low moans.

He knows it’s a trap and what makes it so dangerous is that he doesn’t want to escape. He’s lured in like a little bee to the nectar. Silky voice, and dark eyes have baited him, and sweet touches and lean body have caught him. He’s ensnared now, there’s nowhere to go, he’s captured, lost – god, he loves it.

He lets go of Snape’s hands knowing the moment he lets them free they will go to places, grip into more damning spots on his body then the bones of his hip. He reaches behind too, one hand buried in long black tresses, but with the other he grasps Snape’s arse.

Satisfied smile spreads on his lips when he feels the sudden torrent of warm air that hits his neck, when Snape gasps then the thought is gone because long fingers slip onto his cock, press down hard. A cry escapes Harry’s mouth no matter how hard he tries to hold it back.

He hates how little control he has over his own body, over the whole situation.

“I have a girlfriend,” he says suddenly out loud to remind himself that the hand on his member is not Ginny’s, far from it – better, so much better than her touch ever could be – but also because it’s yet another insult to Snape’s person. It’s a statement telling the man he’s not – _he is_ – the only one who could do this to Harry.

The lips on his skin pull into a smile and Harry knows he’s in even more danger. They shift up on his neck, graze his ear.

“A girlfriend… and an erection.” Snape says calmly. “The question is, are you thinking of her… or this?” He presses his hard cock to Harry backside, the protruding member, hard as steel, makes Harry wonder how it hasn’t pierced through their clothes yet. Snape thrust hard enough that he wouldn’t be surprised to feel bare skin against his arse within moments.

“I’m not gay.” Harry says breathless pushing back, grinding his ass against that hardness.

“Of course, you’re not,” Snape assures him, hand rubbing Harry’s erection steadily. “And I don’t want to come inside you.” He whispers darkly against Harry’s ear.

Harry laughs and moans all at the same time, it comes out as a shuddering hiss. “So vulgar…” He comments.

Snape huffs. “As if your cock doesn’t twitch every time, I open my mouth.”

Harry watches as the slim fingers pop open the button on his jeans and lower the zipper.

“I’m thinking of you,” he says.

“Don’t I know that,” Snape sighs, his voice seductive and sweet as his fingers slip inside Harry’s pants, straight under his underwear.

Snape doesn’t fuck around, he grabs him, strokes him. No one around seems to mind, not even Harry. The crowd does not even look at them, they are nothing more just another shadow among many. No one cares about the fight that goes down in Harry’s mind, about the pleasure, that sears his brain.

The dancefloor smells of sex and sweat but Harry only notices Snape’s fresh scent, like fresh air after rain, the taste of clouds when he flies high up in the sky. It’s more intoxicating than the Laphroaig they’ve been drinking.

Back arching, Harry lets his head fall onto Snape’s shoulder, holds onto his hair firmly, probably tearing at it, but who cares really, when Snape’s every touch is tearing him apart. The firm grip on his cock makes him all but scream and he doesn’t even hold back the loud noises, who would hear them after all.

The music should make him deaf yet all he hears are the quiet sounds. A little hiss, the groan that falls from Snape’s lips, clothe ruffling, as they shift against each other.

This is one of the clearest moments of Harry’s life. He’s on a dancefloor in a gay bar with Severus Snape’s fingers jerking him, while at home his girlfriend is waiting for him, dinner hot, champagne chilled. Would he have a second chance, could he go back in time and chose another path, he wouldn’t change a single moment. He would come right here and smile at Carl and order a whiskey and then accept Snape’s invitation.

Why is it so clear now what he wants – god, how much he wants it, it hurts, it fucking hurts – yet at daylight he can brush it aside, lock it in the depths of his mind, never look back on it.

His orgasm rips something from him, perhaps the keys for all those locked doors. Sheer pleasure floods Harry’s mind, there’s pressure on his ear he cannot even hear the music, his senses can only take in those fingers still moving, skimming, hard, fast strokes, sweet, perfect, damning.

Snape brings his fingers up to his own lips, Harry watches his profile as his mouth opens, his tongue slithers out like a snake’s as if just tasting the scents in the air, but it’s not just air he tastes but his fingers too, licks them clean, smirks. He kisses Harry’s neck.

“I don’t live far away,” Snape says against his skin.

Harry’s insides roil, they twist, his organs get torn from their places. He wants to say yes, he wants to go he wants it so bad it hurts. Just one night, just this one god damn fucking night with Snape, please, is it really that much to ask for?

It is, though, of course it is. He’s Harry Potter and not James. He has a girlfriend who’s waiting for him at home, he has a warm dinner to eat, a cold champagne to drink. Snape wants James, but James won't be there when morning comes, when tomorrow comes, only Harry Potter – and Snape doesn’t want Harry Potter.

His eyes close. He breathes in deep once more, swallowing down Snape’s scent, making sure he carves it to memory, so he’ll remember it later down the years.

“I can't.” He whispers, his voice torn, his body shattered between wanting to do what it craves and what is right.

“Pity,” Snape says, voice calm. His arms leave Harry and as he steps away, he adds, “I would have had fun with you.”

He walks away without another word. Harry only follows him with his eyes, watches it as the faceless crowd swallows him up like a dark mist. He stands there in the middle of that cloud, lets it slowly eat away at him too, come closer and closer, brushing against his sides, slither around him like monstrous tentacles.

The music is loud and he’s sober, too sober even. Yet he still wants it, he can't get it out of his mind. He’ll probably never be able to forget this night.

He goes after Snape. He has left something with Harry, something that Harry does not – should not – want, or at least does not need. He pushes through the crowd, limbs try to hold him back, he tears his body from them, runs past the bar, then out the door. He looks around, there’s no one. He listens, hears nothing. The dark alley is empty.

He goes left on instinct and a shadow moves. He stops, inches closer.

“You have to obliviate me.” He demands frantic. “I don’t want to remember you.”

Snape comes out of the darkness, but his face is still shadowed by his long hair. He marches up to Harry stops only when he is close enough that their noses almost touch. Black eyes glint in the darkness. There is something feral in those eyes now, yet Snape’s voice is calm as he speaks.

“What if I don’t want to obliviate you? What if I want to haunt you in your dreams?”

Harry stares up at him, unable to breathe, to think, to function properly. The dark, wild gaze flickers on his face, wanders down to his lips, it’s stuck there, unable to move.

“God, you have beautiful lips.” Snape sighs suddenly. He’s so close, Harry can feel the warmth of his breath on his cheeks.

“You want to kiss them?” He asks. Those are the only parts of his face that are still his, that really belong to him and not to James. Snape wants them, and Harry is more than happy to give them to the man.

Snape brushes Harry’s lips with a thumb, then leans to Harry’s ear.

“Why else would I even bother talking to you… hm, Potter?” He asks in a teasing voice.

At first, for a brief moment, Harry doesn’t understand why that sentence makes him feel so good, why it sets his nerves on fire, why it makes him shudder wildly.

Then it hits him and he jumps away. “You… you…” he stutters, panicking, breathing hard and fast all of a sudden. His chest hurts, his brain rewinds every word that has been said between them, every action that’s been made.

Snape just stands there, lips twitching, a smirk appears on his face. “Oh please, I knew who you were the moment I laid eyes on you. You think an illusion like that would work on me?”

Harry watches him, eyes wide, not comprehending a word. He hears them but his brain does not understand the meaning of them, it just keeps replaying the events of the evening, the touch on his leg, fingers on his cock, _come inside you,_ everything.

“For seven years my job was to watch you, Potter, and I excel at my job. I know how you move, how you fidget with your hands, I know the tone of your voice, the sound of your laughter.” He leans in close and adds, smugly, “And I most definitely, without a shadow of a doubt, know the shape of your lips.”

Harry manages to surprise both of them when he closes the distance and kisses Snape, hands suddenly fisted in the man’s black shirt and long hair. Snape gasps, kisses back, pulls Harry closer by the waist, then pushes him away.

“You’re right. This isn’t a good idea.” He pants, giving a small lick to his lips.

“Yes, it is.” Harry insists.

It is, because Snape knew. He _knew_ , all along he was aware of Harry’s real identity and he still gave that offer, he still took him to the dancefloor, he still… Harry’s suddenly breathless again, the memories are too overwhelming. He lets the illusion melt away, lets Snape see the real Harry Potter.

The change clearly unsettles Snape. Green eyes watch him instead of those murky blues. Snape shakes his head.

“I won't be the one you can blame for stirring up your pretty little life, Potter.”

Harry steps closer. “You know what day it is?”

“February the fourteenth.”

“Valentine’s day,” Harry emphasises. “If my life is so happy, why would I be here on Valentine’s day?”

“Only you can know the answer to that, love,” Snape answers softly.

Harry watches him. Snape doesn’t go away. Music bursts out of the club as a group of loud people emerges. Harry doesn’t even look their way, he doesn’t care anymore whether it’s James or Harry Potter outside a gay club with another man. Even for just a single night with Snape, he’s willing to risk it all, bring together that was separated all those months ago in a drunken haze out of fear. He’s willing to bring back Harry James Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World, Junior Auror and gay as it can be, thank you very much.

Eyes on Snape, he fishes something out of his pocket. Damning little thing, so small yet it changed so much. It’s the reason he’s here tonight, the reason he’s not yet home with Ginny, the reason James had to come out and play just one last night. He holds it out to Snape on the palm of his hand.

Snape raises an eyebrow, something about his calmness shatters.

“Isn’t it a little too early for such commitments?” He asks.

“I meant to propose to her today.” Harry admits quiet and broken. He’ll never come back from this, he knows. Even if he goes home today, the talk he’s having with Ginny won't be about their shared future. It won't be easy, it won't be nice, but it definitely will be something Harry should have done half a year ago.

They both watch the slim, little ring, diamond shimmering in the lamplight. Such a small, fragile looking thing and what devastation it brought to Harry, yet he cannot be angry at it, only at himself.

He turns his hand, lets the ring fall to the ground. Even the sound it makes as it hits the dirty ground is gentle, twinkling and almost timid like the giggles of fairies. It’s a loud enough statement though, hits Snape’ ear and black eyes shot back up at Harry’s face.

“Don’t.” He says, he sounds almost pleading. “Don’t ruin your life. I’m not worth it.”

Harry’s not so sure about that, but he only says. “It’s already ruined. Maybe you could help me fix it.”

Harry’s heart hammers away in his chest, ever beat a year of his life, he’ll never get back. Snape watches him, face unreadable. Harry can't tell if he’s rejoicing or considering. He can't tell the man would laugh the next minute or kiss. It’s infuriating, that there are so many ways this could end, millions of threads, like spiderwebs float in the air between in these short seconds and among all those millions of possibilities only one, _one_ ending would satisfy Harry.

Snape steps closer, grabs Harry’s arm. The weight of his grip, his pleading eyes all try to tell something to Harry.

“Only you can fix your life. Nothing can help you with that, not a ring, not even me.”

A tip of a wand is pressed gently against his temple and Harry understands what’s going to happen. A part of his mind even realizes why Snape is doing it, why it’s pointless to resist, why it’s futile to fight to change the outcome. They stepped on a path and the events are unchangeable now. The thread rolls, they may not see the end, but one thing is absolute certain now: Harry James Potter will go home to his girlfriend tonight.

His eyes close and he lets it happen.

Snape takes a deep breath, but before he would say the spell, Harry asks timidly, “Won't you kiss me goodbye?”

He can hear how the man’s breathing hitches, feel the warm air on his lips.

“No.” Snape states in a low voice.

“Why? I won't remember it.”

“You won't.” Snape whispers and Harry can feel the brush of his lips against his. “But I will.”

“I thought you wanted to taste my lips…”

A slow exhale against his mouth, the scent of whiskey fills his nose. Snape’s warm body presses against him.

“I don’t.” Snape says and then kisses Harry long and sweet, tongue dipping into Harry’s mouth, languidly swirling, soft lips caress his and strangely enough, Harry smiles at the bittersweet moment.

His eyes shot open at the crack of apparition. He stares at the empty space in front of him, watches the gap of nothingness. Like a blackhole it swallows everything up, takes Harry’s doubts and fears with it too.

He looks around, people look back at him, talking in hushed voices. He knows he’s recognized, but he doesn’t care anymore. He picks up the ring from the ground and leaves too. He’ll never be back here again.

❤❤❤

The first couple of days are the worst.

The uncertainty of the world, the little tilt that makes him think everything will change now. But in fact, it hasn’t. He still goes to work, he still has a pint with Ron and Hermione, dinner at Hogwarts with Minerva. Nothing changes and that’s what’s really unsettling about it. That Harry’s world is upside down – or perhaps, finally has righted itself – but no one seems to care. That everything changed, but not really.

By the end of the week, by the time he stands in front of that door, he’s calm. He knocks unhurriedly, waits patiently. Only when the door opens does his heart quicken slightly, but not out of fear.

Black eyes widen. Harry smiles.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.” Snape presses out almost automatically, clearly in shock then he blinks and his face dissolves into its unreadable mask. “What are you doing here, Potter.”

He watches the man. The memory of those eyes helped him through the past week, let him stay strong as he told Ginny the truth, told everything about James to Hermione and Ron, as he picked out his new apartment, as he packed his clothes and left the lies behind.

“Fixing things.” Harry answers.

“You’re in the wrong place.” Snape says carefully.

Harry shakes his head. “I am, where I ought to be.”

Snape’s eyes narrow. “Read some interesting things in the Prophet about you.”

“Did you now?” Harry asks, steps closer to the man. “You know you can't believe anything they print nowadays.” He smiles, then adds. “Well, maybe a couple things you can.”

Black eyes bore into him, depthless and questioning. The Prophet has been posting about Harry’s coming out for days and seemed they have no intention to stop.

“Yes, I left her. Yes, I’m gay. No, I don’t visit underground sex chambers.”

Snape snorts but opens the door a little wider. “Yet,” he says darkly. “But who knows where such depraved lifestyle might take you.”

Harry laughs, then considers the man for a moment.

“This is who I am, Snape. No illusions. Just me.” He says in the end. “You’re still interested?”

Dark gaze rakes his body, then slim fingers grasp around his wrist as he’s pulled into Snape’s apartment. The door shuts loudly as he’s pressed against it.

“Even more so,” Snape growls lips on Harry’s already.

❤❤❤

**FIN**


End file.
